The lawyer stalked with stately dignity into the room, his pale eyes sweeping over the miscellaneous assortment of equipment.
“I read of your advent in the paper, Mr. Kale, and you will appreciate my natural curiosity as to the particular matter which you may have under investigation. It is only natural that I should enjoy your confidence, your complete confidence, your utter confidence, your implicit confidence.”
And the district attorney stalked to a chair, executed a right turn, paused, flipped the tails of his frock coat to either side, and jackknifed himself into a sitting position.
Clint Kale leaned forward.
“You take the Middlevale Courier, may I ask?”
“Certainly, sir. As one in a public position, I deem it my duty to subscribe to each and every paper printed within the confines of my county. The Middlevale Courier is one of the most reliable of the sheets. It has always supported my candidacy for public office.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Thomas Jefferson Train, if you’ll read the columns of the Courier from time to time you’ll enjoy as much of my confidence as I care to make public.”
The lawyer flushed, then thrust a hand within the breast of his coat, assuming an oratorical posture.
“Your attitude, sir, is scarcely that of one who desires to enforce the existing laws and statutes upon our books. I may assure you that nothing more than such an arbitrary, rude and unusual statement is needed to arouse my suspicions. I am to believe, then, that you are in league with the criminal element, anxious to obstruct rather than to expedite, anxious to avoid rather than to enforce law and justice.
“I had even heard a rumor, sir, that you were employed at the behest of that foul murderess, that bloodthirsty Jezebel, Jane Thurmond. I understand that you were trying to upset a just conviction in a court of justice, a conviction that has been affirmed by the highest appellate tribunal in this State.”
Clint Kale put his head in his hands.
“Don’t make me appreciate the depths of my own infamy,” he begged. “Your accusation makes my activities seem illegal.”
Thomas Jefferson Train nodded gravely.
“They are.”
“But suppose the conviction was unjust?”
“She was tried by a jury of her peers.”
“But the two witnesses who swore they saw her at Sam Pixley’s house. Suppose they were lying? Couldn’t I place them upon that chair, in front of my lie detector? Couldn’t I subject them to a scientific test to determine their credibility?”
The district attorney’s long neck pivoted inside his high collar as he gravely shook his head in dignified negation.
“No. That would be reopening a case which I have pronounced closed. I came to advise you of that.”
“And this man, this Ezra Hickory. How of him?”
“A most valuable witness. A client of mine, by the way.”
“A client! I thought you were the peoples’ attorney?”
“I am. But the emoluments of this office in a small county are not sufficient to furnish a satisfactory remuneration for the highest legal talent. It has, therefore, been the policy of the Legislature to allow a district attorney in counties such as these to accept certain outside employment.”
“I see. But suppose one of your clients should commit a crime. Would you feel free to prosecute them?”
“My clients would not commit crimes, sir.”
“Then it would only be necessary for a man to pay you a retainer to secure virtual immunity from prosecution during your term of office?”
“Very emphatically not! I merely remarked that I am careful in choosing my clients. They are not of the criminal class.”
“I see. How about Ezra Hickory?”
“How about him, indeed?”
“That’s all I wanted to know. Do you suppose the fact that you were his private counsel may have influenced his testimony in the murder case? Do you suppose, knowing you were desperately in need of a witness who had seen the defendant near the home of the deceased at around midnight he stretched his imagination a point—”
Thomas Jefferson Train unjack-knifed his tall figure, stood with telescopic rigidity while he frowned portentously.
“Sir! You are insulting me!”
Clint Kale turned to Boston Blackie with a gleeful smile.
“He’s got it, Blackie. He’s got the idea, at last!”
The lawyer covered the distance from chair to door in three long strides.
“You shall suffer for this,” he declaimed, and then he, too, banged the door.
“Oh, Gawd,” moaned Boston Blackie, “they’ll frame a murder rap on us now. Why did I ever get into this mess? I was so happy in my cell compared with what I’nt goin’ to get into! Le’me go back. Tell the warden I violated parole.”
Clint Kale shook his head.
“No, Blackie, I need you. I need your cheerful optimism of character. But I was going to give you a telegram to send. I wouldn’t send it from Middlevale. The town gets gossip around a little too speedily. You’d better hire a car and drive across the county line. Send it from Center City.”
Boston Blackie took the telegram, mournfully put on his hat and coat.
“I’ll probably find you in jail. Maybe they’ll frame something on you that’ll get you lynched. I ain’t got no relatives. But you’d better make a list of your relatives, an’ the address of where you want the body sent. Mail it to your friends and send a copy to the hospital an’ the undertaker.”
And he closed the door with the firm determination of a martyr marching grimly to his doom.
He would, perhaps, have been even more mournful had he known the contents of the message he carried. It was addressed to the warden of the State prison and was as follows:
Communicate at once criminal record of Boston Blackie to chief of police here. Ask to report if this party in his vicinity. Send photos and finger-prints.
But Boston Blackie handed the sealed envelope to the telegraph operator in the neighboring city, handed over the bill Kale had given him, received his change, contemplated the advisability of breaking his parole, finally decided against it, and returned to Middlevale.
He found his employer peacefully snoring.
Boston Blackie locked all doors, barricaded the windows, and then sought his own bed. Long into the night he could be heard restlessly tossing and turning.
Morning dawned and found Carl Rosamond, pencil and notebook in hand, waiting in the corridor. As soon as Clint Kale left the room for breakfast the reporter attached himself like a bur.
“You’re in bad,” he cautioned.
Clint Kale nodded.
“Awful bad,” he agreed.
“And then some,” added Rosamond.
“Yes,” groaned Kale, “I’ve lost my radium.”
“What’s that?”
“Yes. My radium. It’s gone. It was worth exactly ninety-three thousand, two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and sixteen cents — gold.”
The reporter stared goggle-eyed.
“I want to put a want ad in your lost and found department, offering one thousand dollars for the return of that tube of radium and no questions asked.”
The reporter’s pencil was busy.
“Good Lord! That won’t be necessary. You’ll get all the space you want. A want ad wouldn’t amount to anything. I’ll smear the story all over the front page. Robbed, you think?”
The gloom upon Clint Kale’s countenance deepened.
“Robbed, I’m afraid,” he said. “It was done so cleverly I didn’t have any idea of it, not until this morning.”
“Gee!” breathed the reporter, his news sense causing him to forget his audience, “what a story! Scientific detective, coming to this city to investigate obscure crime, is robbed first rattle out of the box of a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of radium used in connection with his lie detector! Gee, that’s a wow! I’ll telephone that in to the city newspapers. Gosh, what a story!”